Nose wiped, I bolted out of T2 like my feet were on fire. I had no idea how many people were in front of me or what time it even was. My dreams of running an 18 minute 5K were dashed only because….I’ve never run an 18 minute 5K, lol. I’ve never even come close to breaking 20. I wonder some days if my enthusiasm for running makes me appear to be better runner than what I actually am. Proud mid-packer here, occasional age-group placer. That’s it. No land-speed records were going to be broken today; I was simply excited to start the run.

In a race, 6:50-7:00 min/miles would be my 5K speed. I had already made peace those numbers would not be present today. Tempo is around 7:30; but even that seemed a bit rough, considering how much my lower back hurt. So I adjusted my goals and decided to shoot for marathon pace: 8:30s. My happy pace.

Friends warned me the first mile after the bike is tough, very tough. You have to “find” your legs again. I had no problems finding mine – there they are! Hi, legs! – but that nasty lower back ache literally had me gasping in pain. That along with a dull ache in my uh, under carriage. I had been wedged on RB for well over an hour, and I don’t think I once changed or shifted positions. Again, my inexperience was showing.

It took a solid half mile to work out the kinks, especially in the left glute. I used this time to look around the course and see who was still out there. A ton of folks had already finished (buzzkill) but there were Olympic distance folks were still grinding it out. This time, in this sport, I wasn’t afraid to pass them.

As my back settled, so did my mind. Running is so visceral. I turned my head to glance backward. I felt the ground beneath my feet, listened to my competitors’ breathing, even smelled how hard they were working. I never realized how much I rely on my senses during a run, but you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

I felt back in my element.

But I wasn’t feeling 100%. I had clearly ingested buckets of water during the swim, which now splashed angrily in my gut with every foot strike. Ugh. Here was I was so thirsty, yet running with a sloshy tummy. The irony. Plus, it was Lake Mead water. Gross. Where was Johnny to hold my ponytail?

Thankfully, experience kicked in and that inner voice began extinguishing the flames of negative thought. First, It was only 3 miles. Second, I will not be running for four hours. Third, my discomfort was moderate at best. And when my watch clicked an 8:36 for mile one, I forceably exhaled with relief. Only two more to go and I’m moving easily. Everything was going to be just fine.

And it was. Miles 2 and 3 were also in the 8:30s. Before I knew it, my little leggies powered up the hill to the finish line. I caught sight of my cheer squad right before the end and raised two hands in victory. They screamed. I screamed. Done!

After crossing the finish line, I looked around in confusion. I felt...fine. That's it? I’m not sure what I expected. Exhaustion? Elation? Neither hit me. I had a ton more gas in the tank -- perhaps my first clue that I had paced myself poorly. Whoops. But in looking back, I think part of my bewilderment was a result of how I tend to finish full marathons: legs buckling, ready to collapse, the word “Medic!” on the tip of my tongue.

This time? Not so much. Two hours and fifteen minutes worth of work. Not quite as taxing as a long run. Just…wetter. And more booty pain.

Final times:

Am I happy about it? I have no idea. What is considered good in the “tri” world? Fifth in my age group sounds nice, but that only depends on who shows up that day.

What did I learn?

This experience was humbling. Starting in the very last wave, I feared I was one of the last to exit the water. This is something I had never experienced before. It makes me think about those back—of-the-pack runners trying to get in before the mile cut-offs. That’s a different kind of stress than meeting a time goal. It gives me a renewed appreciation for those folks.

Open water swimming is no joke. The experts were right: you need to practice, practice, practice. No wonder during my training swims in the pool, everyone else seemed to be swimming so much harder. I leisurely floated by while they are churned like diesel-fueled paddle boats. Clearly they knew open water brings a completely new dynamic to forward movement. I was just having fun staring at the green line and practicing flip turns. Lesson learned.

It’s possible to “race” without becoming a puddle of stress. I put very little pressure on myself to go fast (hi! Beginner blue cap over here!) and that made a huge difference. There were a few hairy moments during training and on Friday night, but overall, I felt pretty chill about the whole experience. I called it more of an experiment than a race. Obviously, I can’t use this for every situation (…goal-setting is good…) but I’m slowly learning there is a way to aim high without melting down.

I’m a minimalist. I don’t like gear. Cycling and swimming are extremely challenging and require an enormous amount of training and practice, along with being very technique-heavy and gear-dominant. There are far more things that can go wrong on a bike than on two feet. Like halfway through the ride and I looked down and realized I should have added air to my tires. Whoops. I don’t like having more variables to contend with. Maybe it gets easier with time, but it is a lot to juggle. A very experienced tri told me, “You get used to doing nothing well.” That does not settle well with me. Kind of like my triplet analogy; I don’t like feeling like I’m constantly working yet still deficient. Give me one thing and let me do it well.

We are who we are. And I am a runner. What I lack in talent, I make up for in effort and exuberance. I’m never going to run elite, win a marathon, or do anything truly noteworthy for the sport. And that is totally okay. If 2017 has taught me anything — from being injured for 8 weeks to skipping runs because my other other babies were crying — it is that I value running and need it in my life. It’s less of a sport and more like a relationship. Running, thanks for being you. To many more happy miles together.

The most common question I’ve gotten since Saturday is “…will you do another triathlon?”

I have no idea. At least I have the gear now - including my wet suit, which has been lying in our bathtub since Saturday night.

I am not a trainer or a fitness expert, but here’s a tip: do not train for a full marathon and a triathlon at the same time. Unless you have copious amounts of free time on your hands, are working towards an Ironman, AND are married to a chiropractor, it’s not worth it.

I tried. I really did. (I “tri’d” haha). For five weeks, I did my runs (easy, speed, tempo) at 4am, then cycled or swam later. On one Sunday, I did all three to see what it was like. Obviously, the swimming took place in a pool, which I now understand is the equivalent of splashing around in a bath tub as compared to the brutality of open water swimming. But some days called for no running, which made me feel slightly panicky. My mileage dropped from 40+ a week to mid 30s then the high 20s. Friends reassured me that all the cross training would help my running but in my head, I had trouble putting the two together. Knowing from experience I perform significantly better at higher mileage (+40 miles/week = good results, 39 miles or less = no bueno), I held my breath as those miles dropped. At least I knew how to get into my big chain.

The light bulb came on after Cedar City. Sure, the lackluster performance made me cringe, but it was how I felt at the end of that race that scared me the most. I refocused my attention on running completely. Not because I want a good time in Indy (I do, trust me), but more because I know the exquisite pain that is the last 10K of a marathon. If a half can hurt that badly, a full will eat me alive. There was no way I was going to sacrifice time on my feet for a sprint tri; I figured I had enough aerobic endurance to pull it off with just run training. I could wing the the other two sports on race day.

If you read yesterday’s entry, you are probably thinking how short-sighted my plan was. Well, let’s just say the bike was also a serious learning experience.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try on race day. On Tuesday, I called a last-minute Hail Mary and switched to clip-in pedals. The course was primarily uphill and clipping in gave me 50% more power to climb. The gain of additional momentum far outweighed the risk of falling over in the transition area. So I did it. With trepidation, fear, and a little bit of bluster. Because…why not?

Bike map and elevation profile; where is the downhill? Oh right. There is none.

Despite my best intentions of doing at least two clipped-in rides the week before the race, I had to settle for less then 20 minutes of practicing next to my front lawn. The first time, I clipped and took off without a problem. Beginner luck! The second time, I missed the right clip and fell over. We have really soft grass.

Okay, plenty of practice.

On Saturday while snapping on my brand-new bike shoes, I seriously questioned this decision. Maybe I should have tried just a few more times to get that muscle memory working. I wasn’t concerned about the embarrassment or pain of falling; anyone who has ever attended boot camp with me will attest I fell once a quarter. No, I was concerned about injury; I didn’t want to bloody a knee or worse. I need two high-functioning legs and all of their adjoining parts for the marathon, just 14 days away. Race day worst case scenario: I never clip in and instead jog up the hill with Rainbow Brite tucked under my arm. It was only 12.2 miles…

I had to go for it. The Lord hates a coward.

It took three tries. Johnny, naturally, has video of all of this. On the first two attempts, I waver slightly before getting both feet on the ground safely. It looks awkward and unsightly. How it felt: .3 seconds of sheer terror. A nice volunteer patiently stood next to me, listening to me swear under my breath. Don’t let me pitch over, don’t let me pitch over…and then third time’s the charm. Both feet safely locked in. I took off.

Now, how do you stop?

I’ll figure that out later.

After twenty seconds of remaining upright, I began to contemplate the twelve miles ahead of me. I had no idea how to pace myself. My watch was set to running but had switched screens various times during the swim. It was on a screen I had never seen before. I could barely itch my nose on the bike, let alone play with my watch, so both hands remained firmly on the handlebars. I would just have to guess speed and distance.

I climbed out of Boulder Beach slowly and methodically. There was a tight 180-degree turn at the sprint turnaround and I wondered how to pull that one off. I pedaled and worried, pedaled and worried. Lynn’s voice echoed in my brain: keep cadence high; shift gears to adjust. Anticipate elevation. It’s like reading sheet music. I focused on hills, dropped gears, added gears. I decided to stay in my small chain the whole time; yes, I was being a baby but this was not a time for heroics.

After a few miles, I got a little antsy. This was...boring. I sped up, passing a few people. That was fun. Then it got boring again. I wondered briefly if I had somehow missed the sprint turnaround. Nope – it was directly ahead. Eek, okay, let’s turn around without falling off. Slowing my speed to barely a crawl, I turned the handlebars, grimaced, yet remained upright. First solid victory of the morning!

Now the path took us out of the recreation area and up the hill to Boulder City. In single file, we silently crawled up, like a trail of helmeted ants. I wasn’t working particularly hard; even without my heart rate monitor and a functioning Garmin, I knew I wasn’t using much effort. I wanted to go faster but wasn’t bold enough to pass others because of the narrow road. Plus, the Olympic distance folks were still on the course. Many of them zipped by in a flash, some so quickly I didn’t know they were there until they were next to me. Each one scared the hell out of me. The last thing I wanted was to cause a wreck so I stayed put. We climbed. Slowly.

Slowly.

Despacito…I sang in my head, attempting to entertain myself.

So bored.

But I had no other choice. Is this the way cycling works?

There were no mile markers showing how far we’d gone which was downright maddening. the only hint of our location came at the aid station at mile 6 passing out *full-size* bottles of Gatorade. What?? Full-size bottles? That doesn’t happen at in a run. Yet those bottles contained a twinge of irony too - despite my burning thirst and the nasty taste of Lake Mead that lingered in the back of my throat, I couldn’t manage a quick sip of any liquid…because I couldn’t reach them. I had never practiced drinking and riding. Drinking and registering, yes. But water while cycling? Nope. The two bottles strapped to my bike held gloriously cool water and tasty cherry Nuun…but I couldn’t get to them. The thought of removing a hand from the handlebars filled me with such fear, it felt better to suffer extreme thirst then potentially crash.

It was as though I simply chosen to take my water bottles out for a nice ride. I hope they enjoyed themselves, because they reached T2 completely untouched.

I, on the other hand, was a hot mess. Not having had a drop of water in over an hour, my mouth felt like it was full of dry sand. My nose ran like a leaky faucet but I couldn’t get a hand up there to wipe it. So boogers plastered the sides of my face and my tongue tasted like paper.

Post-aid station, I must have asked three different people how much course was left. The climb was tedious, the wind annoying. Legs felt fine, but my lower back burned as though someone had stabbed it with hot pokers. My left elbow hurt. My right knee ached. When was this going to end?

Oh wait, one last punch, right in the gut. My group of fellow cyclist ants and I were probably near mile 10 when I noticed other riders coming at us…riders coasting downhill, smiling…wearing medals…

Finishers.

There is really nothing worse than seeing fellow athletes who are already done when you are still out there working. It just takes the wind out of your sails. One moment, I was telling myself to hang in there, keep pushing, and the next, I saw medals and felt totally deflated. They had an hour head start, I reasoned…they probably know how to swim. They can reach for their water bottles and pedal simultaneously.

Jerks.

I dragged myself up the last hill. T2 shimmered in the distance like a beautiful mirage. After twelve of the longest miles of my life, the ride was permanently and decidedly over. I just had to unclip…

Per Lynn’s instructions, I removed my right foot well the stopping area as not to crash. I noted the gentlemen in front of me not only unclipped, but actually swung his leg over his bike, so both legs were on the same side. He slid to a perfect, graceful stop. I had a feeling he wasn’t thirsty.

Hey hey hey! Who has two wheels and is done with the bike? This girl!

It wasn’t quite so smooth for me. A bit turbulent but I managed to remain vertical. I got my foot out but hit the brakes too quickly and shifted forward. Thankfully, my left foot slid out and everything found solid ground. Wobbling, I hauled Rainbow Brite over to my area, keeping my eyes peeled on the ground for the red lulu bag. It was there! I HAVE SHOES! It’s a tri miracle!

Brian, Scotty and Johnny were all screaming next to the fence. I noticed Scott waving what appeared to be a letter-sized piece of white paper. He made me a sign! What a good boy. He was asking if I saw fish during the swim. Glycogen-deprived and still unsteady, I lied and shouted yes. The kid is obsessed with fish and I didn’t want to disappoint him. But now, post-race, he’s asked me a million question about the alleged fish and I don’t have the heart to tell him Mom mislead to him. Maybe one day he’ll read this.

I’m sorry, Scott. There were no fish. But it made you happy in the moment and I didn’t have any more time to explain.

Ahh, dry feet

New socks on, feet dry, shoes tied, water bottle in hand. I felt good. Let's put this puppy to bed.

But there was one more pit-stop to make.

In reviewing the rules pre-race, it clearly stated athletes could not accept help from spectators. Any “aid” would result in various time penalties, even a full disqualification. This really surprised me. I mean, at every marathon I’ve ever run, including Boston, the spectators are as much a part of the race as the runners are. Especially Boston. When I read this, the only thing I could think was, “…so...no Otter Pops?” That’s cruel, man. I dutifully relayed this info to Johnny pre-race, telling him sternly, “I don’t care if I can’t get out of my wetsuit and I’m flopping around in T1 like a dying fish; DO NOT HELP ME!” He nodded his head in full agreement. No help. Got it.

After seeing the finishers on the course, I gave up on the rules. I’m not racing for money here and I was almost certain I'd be one of the last to cross the finish line. But Johnny didn’t know that. So when I ran up to him and asked for a Kleenex, the expression on his face was downright priceless. I saw two thoughts flicker across simultaneously: “she needs help” and “…but am I allowed to help???” Thankfully, common sense beat out the strict interpretation of the rule. He immediately began fishing around in his pockets and handed over the goods.

Blowing my nose has never felt so amazing.

Now it was time to run. Hooray! Unbeknownst to me but caught on video, my Boston song, my favorite song, my theme song came on over the loud speakers. “Try Everything” by Shakira. Feel free to laugh but that song speaks to me. I won’t give up, I won’t give in, till I reach the end and then I’ll start again. I mean, isn’t that how my whole year has gone?

I wanna try everything, I wanna try everything even though I could fail.

Fail, disqualify, finish last. Does it matter? Heck no! Like one of my favorite sayings, “Fall down seven times, get up eight,” you can turtle-swim, flounder at clipping in and fizzle out when it comes to reaching for a water bottle. The end isn't what matters, it's the effort. It's putting yourself out there to do new things. The whole point is to try! TRI! The name is literally in the title. It's been there the whole time. I just didn't know it.

I see it now. I get it.

The Universe was essentially saying, “Hey, Buttercup: you are fine. Shut up and start running. ”

The story of PumpkinMan will be a three-part series…a TRI-ology. How could it not?

A triathlon consists of a swim, a bike ride, and a run. The distances vary but the structure is the same – swim, bike, run. On Saturday, I completed a sprint triathlon, the shortest distance of all tri events. It started with a 750 meter swim in Lake Mead, a 12.2 mile ride on a road that wound its way from Boulder Beach into the hills, then culminated with a 3.1 mile run through the streets of Boulder City.

There is a surprise fourth part of the tri that starts well before you ever get to the course. They don’t tell you about this part. It’s called “packing.” And it took me far longer than any other part of the race did.

By late Friday night, I looked around my garage, expecting someone to place a race medal around my neck for my Olympic level of organization. Working off of three separate lists, I took great delight in checking items off as they were placed in the car. Crammed to the gills with gear, it now encased all of the red lululemon bags I owned, several gym bags, and one very colorful road bike - I call her “Rainbow Brite.” Amid the packages of Honey Stinger waffles, I had my Transition 1 (T1) bag, a wetsuit, the baby blue swim cap that denoted my beginner status, goggles, another pair of goggles, gels, socks, extra socks, more socks (I hate wet feet), towels in case my feet were somehow still wet despite three sock changes, water bottles, Nuun, a change of clothes, extra contacts, moisturizer, lip balm, bandaids, Neosporine, and a prescription for antibiotics to consume immediately upon exiting the murky, parasite-filled waters of Lake Mead*.

The only thing not packed were my running shoes; they had been dropped off in a random parking lot in the heart of Boulder City earlier that day. “Transition 2 area,” the nice volunteer lady assured me. I looked at her with skepticism. I didn’t realize leaving the shoes to my beloved sport would cause so much internal conflict. I struggled to walk out of that parking lot as my Adidas Boston Boosts stayed behind, looking abandoned and helpless. The race promised overnight security. Really? Running was the one part of this whole adventure that I could actually do; without shoes, I was screwed on that aspect, too.

Good-bye sweet shoes. I've only known you for 215 miles.

Kim of Little Faith. I crammed an extra pair of shoes into yet another lulu bag and tucked it into the car. Better safe than sorry. Sadly, I was out of extra socks.

Once the gear was secure, I focused on the players. Our plan was simple and we all knew our parts. I was picking Johnny up at 5:10. We would head to the beach for the swim. After I got on my bike, he would drive my car to T2. Brian and Scott would meet him there to watch the transition and the start of the run. The start was also the finish, so *hopefully* 25 short minutes later, I would round the corner and complete my first – and possibly last - triathlon. Medal, hugs, photos, maybe breakfast. Just your average Saturday morning.

For the record, you know you have a great training partner when he unflinchingly agrees to not only postpone his long run to Sunday to aid in your quest to finish your first tri, but also when he casually mentions he’s getting up at 3am to “get a quick run in” before heading out. When I pulled up at 5:13am, Johnny was cheerful and ready to go, miles already done. I offered him coffee; he offered to act as my gear sherpa, race cheerleader, personal photographer and official ponytail-holder when the vomiting started.

That’s a REALLY good training partner.

I knew we were a good team – we had spent the better part of the last few weeks coordinating several “Ghost Runs” sponsored by the Downtown Summerlin lululemon store. Throughout our training, we're almost always on the same page and have an easy ability to communicate, sometimes without even having to speak. But what I didn’t anticipate was how important his presence would be once we finally arrived at the beach. Sitting in the car, staring at the dark, choppy waters, I could not bring myself to open the car door and face the day. Just as the tears welled up and that choking-crying thing started, Johnny launched into a subject completely unrelated to swimming, drowning or contracting a flesh-eating virus. His happy post-run chatter completely eclipsed my growing fears and provided the necessary distraction. The tears disappeared as quickly as they came on. Crisis 1: averted. Thank goodness for good running partners!

We spent the rest of the morning taking silly pictures, watching other athletes, eating waffles and running to and from the port-a-potties. It was a brilliant morning; the temperature rose as the sun came over the mountains, making it cool but comfortable. Southern Nevada is really a lovely place to live and I have to pinch myself occasionally to remind myself these dazzling sunrises and colorful, desert landscapes are real.

I love where we live

I stared closely at how people arranged their gear in T1 and tried to mimic their organization. I dutifully held out both arms, a hand, and the back of my calf to be body-marked. I obtained a timing chip – not a small metal square on the back of a bib, but this bulky device that straps around your ankle. I kept referring to it as “my ankle monitor” until someone corrected me and said that’s what paroles wear. Whoops. I’m a beginner, okay?

Setting up my stuff in T1

Eventually, I realized it was time to get swim-ready. Armed with two bottles of TriGlide and a wetsuit that has never actually been wet, I wriggled into the thick material as Johnny held one arm to keep me from pitching over into the rocks. That TriGlide stuff really works! I had no idea where to spray it, so it went everywhere. Legs, stomach, back, underarms. Was this sunscreen? Deodorant? Who knows. Who cares? We were just having fun by this point. I donned my extremely unattractive light blue cap, my goggles and said a silent prayer that my contacts did not pop out mid-swim, lest I be blind until T1.

...so I really have to get in the water?

Seasoned tri friends had advised me to “warm up in the water” before my wave went out. I honestly had no idea what that meant. In running, it means you run a few miles, stretch, do some plyometrics and get all "nimbly-bimbly" (Alex’s word and one of my favorites). In swimming, warming up meant…you actually get in the water? Like, now? But what if you get cold? My wave was the very last one – the baby blues started almost an hour after everyone else. I guess they wanted to keep tabs on us, since we the ones who most likely registered for this event while drinking**. Everything sounds like a good idea when sitting at your kitchen counter with a glass of wine. I looked around at the sea of purple, orange, and green caps. No blue in the water. Where were my people?

The DJ/announcer gave very clear directions as each wave of swimmers lined up: sprint athletes were simply swimming in a large rectangle – green bouy, green bouy, orange bouy, shore. Seemed easy enough.

The sprint swim course - seems fairly straighforward

I stared at each of the colored bouys, bobbing frantically in the wind. Sure, the water was rough but it didn’t look overwhelming. I watched as the first group, the Olympic males 39 and under, cut through the water like neon orange-capped mako sharks. So aggressive and fierce; very cool. I could do this. Pssh. Swimming is easy.

Wave after wave of athletes lined up and dove in. They were all making it look easy. This gave me courage to put a foot in the water. Okay, not as cold as I thought. I gingerly made my way over the rocks in the shallow water, feeling hopelessly slow and heavy. These rocks were sharp! Ow, ow, ow. Please, no cut feet. I need my feet to run. Once I was in knee-deep water, I threw the rest of my body in like a bloated manatee to avoid further foot worry. Oh! Cold but not too cold. My feet floated as I let the water come up to my chin. My wetsuit was so…warm. It was like swimming in a thick, buoyant sweater. Mmm. Again, I reflected on the ease of this sport. Only a few more steps: next, put face in water. Then, swim. Finally, win race.

I continued to splash around in the shallow water like a toddler, convinced I was “warming up.” Am I warming myself up temperature-wise, or like, warming up in terms of swimming? I still had no idea. I Googled “how to swim in open water” the night before and the main point in all the articles came back to the same thing: practice in open water. Darn it. Talk about a day late, a dollar short.

More and more baby blue swim caps approached the water and my wave finally lined up; at the same time, the faster swimmers exited the water to get to their bikes. There were less and less spectators on the beach as folks peeled off to follow their friends and family members. As I glanced back, I could still make out the Johnny’s tall frame. He was filming everything and grinning from ear to ear. Well, I reasoned, at least he’ll be available to identity my body if I go under.

Strangely, despite my morbid thoughts, I had very little fear. I was more amused than anything. And curious. Very curious. I just wanted to get started to see how it all played out. Once again, anticipation was the worst part of this whole experience.

My fellow blue cappers and I all bobbed quietly near our buoy. The announcer went over the swim route again. If my Boston wave was all similar-looking lean, mean, PTA moms, this group was the opposite. It was rather eclectic. Men, women, all shapes and sizes. There was no commonality except the color of our swim caps. I looked around, trying to ascertain who was going to be the first person to kick me in the face.

The announcer finally, blissfully shouted “Go!” and that was it; we all dove forward like sleek dolphins. Well, I felt like a sleek dolphin in my wetsuit-sweater. This is fun! I kept my distance from other swimmers as avoid their rapidly moving feet. Four strokes in, I felt amazing. I concentrated on using my lats, not my shoulders. Wide arms, pull, kick. This was going perfectly! I turned to the side to take my first breath...

...and promptly got hit with a huge wave of water. Right in the face.

Coughing and spurting, my gorgeous swim ended in less than four seconds. I pulled my head up, went vertical and blinked. What the hell? Waves? I had not anticipated this. Heck, I was annoyed when the water slides were on at the outdoor pool at Lifetime, creating a slight push in the water of the lap lanes. Perhaps I should have swam a bit more in that gentle push…because this was a real current and I actually had to make forward movement. Um…how?

For about three minutes, I continued to swim freestyle. And each time, it went the same: stroke, stroke, breath, massive wave in the face. Cough, choke, go vertical. I glanced around and realized: I’ve made no progress. How the hell do you do this? Perhaps this is why they said to practice a lot. Damn those experts and their helpful advice.

Then it dawned on me: not only was I not moving forward, the current was actually pushing me backwards. As in, back to shore. Gah! I swore a bit while treading water, assessing my options. Kayaks and boats circled nearby, but I wasn’t in trouble. With my vast amount of adipose tissue and my super awesome wetsuit-sweater, I could float forever. Drowning was not a concern. I just had to figure out how to maneuver through this water.

So I did the only thing I could think of: the breast-stroke. With my head completely out of the water, I kicked my way to the first buoy. I kept my eyes on the green balloon, never losing sight of it. People all around me were flailing and grabbing on to kayaks. Sleek doliphins? We were totally the beginner group. This was more like a blooper reel of how not to do an open water swim. I felt like a hulking blue-eared sea turtle swimming slowly past the watery chaos. I felt like an idiot, but at least it was working.

Making the first turn, I had convinced myself the current would be better going in another direction. Nope. It felt worse. How is that possible?! My breast-stroke turned into a side stroke. Again, I felt no panic – thankfully – just annoyance and mild amusement. This would be much easier with no wind and no current. Also, no waves. And if possible, please paint large lines on the bottom of the lake so we can all stay in a lane. Just some suggestions, thanks.

By the time I hit the second buoy, I was sick of the side stroke. Now, headed into shore, I tried freestyle again. Nope, more waves in the face. Gah! This was impossible. Keeping my face out of the water, I flipped over on my back. Just a nice flutter kick while doing elementary backstroke arms. If that didn't work, I had only one tool left in my swimming arsenal: the doggy paddle. I had sunk lower than I ever dreamed in the last twenty minutes, but wasn’t sure I was ready to break out a doggy paddle. So I breathed, stared at the sky, and willed myself back to land.

My hybrid backstroke was going quite well until I kicked some unsuspecting fellow blue-capper right in the head. “Sorry!” I shouted at her. She never looked up. Once I was certain she was still conscious, I flipped back over. To my horror, I realized I gone in a giant squiggly line.

I was actually farther away from the shore now.

More swearing.

My actual swim route

I returned to my sea turtle roots. Pride be damned, I had to get to back. I could see all kinds of blue-caps rushing out of the water. Was anyone behind me? Was I going to be the last one out? I knew there was a swim cut-off, but I couldn’t operate my watch to see the time. Wow – not in my worst nightmares did I think I would be dead last in the swim. This was not going well at all.

Channeling my inner Dory, I just kept swimming. Again, because I was a technically a beginner, I really had no expectations about the race. I wanted to finish and to have fun. I wouldn’t call my turtle-swimming fun, but I wasn’t drowning either. Both contacts appeared to be in place. I gave myself a bit of room to not excel and continued frog-kicking my way to freedom.

Finally, finally, finally, I hit solid ground. Two feet on very sharp rocks – ouch! Getting out of the water, I moved literally as fast as I could. The rocks and my now-heavy not-quite-so-awesome wetsuit-sweater didn’t help matters, but I hustled as fast as my sea legs would let me. Johnny, ever handy with his phone, caught the whole thing on video. In my mind, I felt like a lithe, powerful competitor muscling her way to dry land. Upon viewing the actual video, I look more like Godzilla emerging from the depths of the ocean, ready to sack Tokyo. There was nothing graceful, quick or even athletic about my shore entry. The only good thing is I’m smiling – out of sheer relief to be back on dry land and because of the total ridiculousness of it all. I mean, I could be eating pancakes with my family. Instead, I was doing my best impression of a prehistoric radio-active monster wearing an ankle monitor.

I was smiling but discouraged by the time I found Johnny and my shoes. Johnny pointed out my flip flops and I scooped them up as fast I could. Then he said the best possible thing anyone could say in that moment: “You look much better than certain people that have come out! They've come out crying.”

Wait, what? Other people are...crying? I'm not crying...I'm just wiping the boogers off my face and trying to shake the water out of my ears. Are you telling me other people thought that was hard, too? Not like I want to springboard off of their misery but…I want to springboard off of their misery. That’s how racing works.

Reenergized and emboldened that not all was lost, I ran as fast as I could up to T1. My wetsuit slipped off easily, a result of the copious amount of TriGlide applied earlier. You could use that stuff to fry eggs, fix a squeaky door, anything. It’s amazing. I poured two bottles of water over my feet, wiping them carefully to ensure no loose rocks got caught in my socks. I accidentally put my right sock on while my foot was still wet, but that was okay; I knew I had another pair waiting for me at T2. (At least, I had to believe I did). I wiped more snot off my face, sucked down a gel, and took a long swallow of water. Okay, bike time.

The glamorous moment of removing boogers from my face

Part II tomorrow!I

* just kidding. I'm sure the water in Lake Mead is perfectly safe. I only saw one three-eyed fish during my swim.

** don't drink and register for races. Very dangerous behavior. You'll end up on a beach at sunrise, spraying yourself down with the athletic equivalent of cooking oil.

I say “experiment” because I wasn’t sure what would stick – would I fall in love with cycling? Is swimming my thing? Am I a runner at heart? Or would the combination of all three make me the happiest?

Let’s say this: making the decision to run a tri is akin to birthing triplets (*on a much, much smaller scale. No offense to the triplet moms out there.) It was downright overwhelming. Despite having almost no downtime, I felt like nothing was going well. Someone was constantly being neglected. Cycling, my colicky, stubborn baby, demanded the most attention and stole my patience. Swimming suffered silently; it never uttered a peep, even when I ignored it for weeks. And running, my darling, perfect and favorite child, began to deteriorate from lack of care and attention. I think Cedar City was the best example of what happens when you disrespect running.

::sigh::

I wish I could wrap cycling in a fuzzy blanket and drop it off at a fire station in the early morning hours. That’s how much I loathe it. I tried – I really did. But it’s just not a fit. The first week I had a bike, I couldn’t even look at the damn thing while wearing my heart monitor; my little heart would shoot up to 165+ bpm at the mere sight of two wheels. On Day 1 of the Great Experiment, I spent an entire morning with a friend, just riding circles in her safe, flat cul-de-sac, trying to get used to the brakes and gears. I must have repeated “small chain, big hill” about a million times to myself. Apparently, graduating from a 10-speed bike means you suddenly have 28 gears to use. This is 27 more gears than I need. I clicked, I shuffled, I peddled. I tried to get into my big chain.

I tried very hard to not fall.

During that first week, I forced myself to ride everyday, thinking practice makes perfect. Wrong. Practice only leads to an extremely sore jaw due to the long amounts of time I spent clenching it. Three full days of soft foods and protein shakes encouraged me to chill the f*** out, lest this ridiculousness continue. Kim may suck at biking, but she is hungry.

Eventually, I got to the point where my friend deemed me not a risk on the roads, so we started traversing her neighborhood. Slowly. Well, I thought we were flying – 12 mph! – but she just gently laughed at me. You mean we have to go faster?! OMG. But I don't want to...

On a bike, there is no music. No jamming out to a song, getting lost in your thoughts. No Despacito. I mean, I can’t tell you how many runs I’ve been on where I actually forgot I was running. Or better yet, I’ll forget I even ran that day. This is especially true for early morning runs. I zone out and by 10am that day, I have to look at my Garmin to remind myself I did, in fact, run that morning. Not on a bike, though. You are aware of your surroundings, your balance, speed, elevation, gear position, tire pressure, traffic, weather, barometric pressure, wind speed, cloud formation, and if that dog is coming for you or just out for a little jog. Is that glass in the road? Pebbles? Water? Avoid all of this! Does that car see you? Who is behind you? Why did that cyclist just zoom past? Why is this considered fun?

The week I got my bike, I forgot how to swim. No joke. It took me a solid 400 yards to remember how to move my arms over my head. Kick, too? Geez, this is complicated. I must have looked like I was drowning during one rather unfortunate flip-turn because the 17-year old lifeguard actually woke up from his nap and came over to ask me if I was okay. “I got a bike,” was the only thing I could spit out, along with a copious amount of pool water. Stupid bike.

“Runners never look happy,” an avid cyclist (and non-runner) told me. Huh? I thought, looking at him. Not happy? We are deliriously joyful. Filled to the brim with elation. We are elves of merriment. Okay, our faces may be grimacing, but inside, we are thoughtfully working through the problems of our lives and this world, one mile at a time. We are thinking about how good it feels to move across the Earth. What an amazing sense of accomplishment we will feel when the run is over. How running is our greatest, truest, and last form of freedom.

“Maybe they are just thirsty,” I offered instead.

But my friend does bring up a good point; as I straddle the fence between worlds, I’ve noticed some key differences. Namely, cyclists seem to like other cyclists. A lot. This pack mentality is definitely safer; riding in a peloton is a simple equation: the bigger the group, the more visible you are to cars. This phenomenon lends itself to the social nature of the sport; cyclists seem really…friendly. Agreeable. Outgoing. They do these crazy things called “fun rides” that involve riding 100+ miles and eating things like sandwiches and spare ribs at refueling stations. Plus – get this! – it’s not even a race. It’s a “ride.” They aren't competing for anything!

I know, I’m just as confused as you are.

Runners…we, well, we don’t eat spare ribs at mile 10. Just Honey Stinger waffles pre-run. (Mmm, waffles). Runners don’t travel in packs. We move in highly-concentrated little groups that have been carefully established and crafted over many years and miles. And better yet - most of us are content to log solo miles. In fact, we love our alone time. We relish it. We may know each others’ paces and routes, but constantly running in a group can be exhausting. Who can talk that much? Likewise, who needs space? Hamster-ing around the same oval for hours at a time is so fun! Keep a careful eye on those splits since a few seconds make a difference. Neurotic, yes, but remember, we are used to slurping pure glucose out of foil packets because our digestive systems are shutting down. No ribs for us, thanks. It's hard to not go a tad bit nutso when your daily sustenance isn't even a food group.

Not to mention - let's talk about cost. Running is so much cheaper. You buy some non-cotton socks, a pair of shoes, maybe a watch if you're feeling crazy, and you are off. Cycling: not so much. There is the cost of the bike, helmet, shoes, padded shorts, and several shirts with 300 pockets each. I actually have my own bike mechanic at this point. Because - get this - you have to rely on other people. ::shudders:: I'm at the cycling shop three times a week for various gear and tune-ups. Pedal changes, tire kits, bike fittings, lights, water bottles. So. Much. Stuff. So. Much. Conversation.

It’s as simple as the difference between dogs and cats. Neither is better than the other; they are just different. Most dogs are pretty happy-go-lucky animals, social and pack-minded. Rule-followers because when you live in a pack, you need order. Cats…not so much. We like what we like. We are finicky, particular, sensitive, independent. We enjoy a nice nap in the sunshine. Don’t tell us to fetch, ever. You can pet me and tell me I'm pretty when I'm ready, thanks.

It’s good to know who you are – and in this case, I am happily feline. I will anxiously be looking forward to finishing the swim on Saturday, getting on and off my bike without dying, and finally and gloriously putting both feet on the ground for the run. Do I have any goals? Only to raise money for Girls on the Run Las Vegas. (insert shameless plea for money here)

Will I do another tri? I honestly have no idea – I’m keeping an open mind, but as I make list after list of all the gear I need, I can only think that stuffing a bunch of gels into your short pockets and running 26.2 miles is far easier than tri-prep.

Besides, I'm ready for a nap. In the sunshine. Pet me behind the ears. No, not there. Oh, better.

Meow.

Full blog report next week!

PS – what is my swimmer-animal analogy? A fish, of course!PPS – and what do I call triathletes? OVERACHIEVERS.